the
boat trip
Cover shot: Daniel Jones.
EDITORIAL Editor in Chief travis ferrÉ Managing Editor stuart cornuelle Associate Editor Taylor Paul Photo Editor peter taras Associate Photo Editor jimmy wilson Art Director chato aganza Art Director Scott Chenoweth Online Editor jason miller
Photos by Nathan Lawrence • Story by Leo Maxam
As you recall, you were lying on a beanbag chair in the upstairs lounge, playing Shaun Palmer’s Pro Snowboarder on the X-Box 360. The boat chef had just handed you a Bintang chilled to perfection and announced sunset hors d’oeuvres out on the top deck. It was the perfect ending to yet another luxurious day on your monster surf charter yacht — until you peeked out the window and saw that the waves were still hopelessly flat. That’s when you swore to never again save all year for a $4,000 boat trip where you spend more time fishing and playing video games than surfing.
This year you and your mates have left the chef and surf guide behind. Once it was clear that the swell, tide and wind were all in alignment, the trip came together in less than 24 hours. You sprang the news on your girlfriend and were out the door before she had time to protest. You told your boss there was a family emergency and hopped on a redeye flight to the equator. Now you’re stepping over fish heads and oil drums on the shores of a third-world harbor, which apparently doubles as the town dump. You’re looking for a fishing boat to take you to an offshore island.
Given the size of this swell, the
should be barrels out there wide
to fit last year’s mega yacht.
ere enough
Dede suryana.
Mikala Jones.
the
waves You don’t head out on a rickety fishing boat in the middle of the ocean to surf beachbreak. You’re here to get barreled over coral reef. The waves are heavy and the bottom is alive. If you hurt yourself out here, it’s up to you and your mates to do the necessary repairs. Super-gluing shut reef punctures to the head. Stitching a shredded lip back on with fishing line. It happens. Unlike on most package boat tours, the fishermen from whom you hired the boat don’t require you to take out a travel insurance policy. In fact, they don’t seem to give a damn if you make it back at all.
Dede suryana.
Bol.
GARUT WIDIARTA.
DAMIEN FAHRENFORT.
the
boat The Indies Trader it ain’t. The paint is peeling. The deck is rotting. The stench of diesel fuel fills the small cabin. There’s no GPS or radio, and you wonder how on earth the driver manages to make the overnight crossing to these small islands in the pitch black. There’s no AC or fan, which makes the occasional ocean breeze at night feel like a gift from the heavens. The shower is a drum of brackish water with a pouring cup inside. Until you return to the mainland, you’re living like an Indo fisherman.
DAMIEN FAHRENFORT.
the
c
company The only “alone time” you get on this trip is inside the tube, so it’s a good thing you came with solid mates. There are four of you living in an 8’ x 25’ pen at all times. The cabin is essentially an extra-large coffin. It can fit three people sleeping side by side like sardines in a can. The fourth person sleeps on the deck, or on the roof if it looks like a clear night.
DAMIEN FAHRENFORT.
Mikala Jones.
the
crew Four local fishermen make up the boat crew. To them, you and your mates are just another big catch, like a school of tuna hauled up in the net. Fish or surfers, either way it means plenty of cigarettes and hookers when they get back to port. They sleep in the engine room next to greasy gears and smelly fishing nets. The only thing they do more than sleep is smoke and fish. You never see them without a ciggy in the mouth and fishing line wrapped around the palm. For the most part, they are indifferent to you. They bathe naked in plain sight and scrub their tidy whiteys on the front deck. There’s no room for modesty on the high seas.
Dede suryana.
sequence continues...
sequence continued...
Dede suryana.
[don’t eat the snakes.]
the
food
If the fish are biting, you eat fresh catch of the day with rice. If not, it’s noodles and PB&J. You managed to stock up on beer during the 10-hour drive from the airport to the harbor. In this corner of the Muslim world, it was harder to track down than Osama Bin Laden. You meet one group of surfers who have been at sea for three weeks eating nothing but rice. When you invite them over to your boat for a cold brew, they scamper aboard like shipwreck victims who just spotted a rescue plane. One of them even offers you his brand new Al Merrick for a case of beer. The cooler and ice are your lifeline to a decent meal — cold drinks, cheese, non-moldy bread. If you run out of ice, it’s just noodles, noodles, and more noodles. Fortunately, everything tastes better when you’re surfed-out, hungry, and on a boat in the middle of nowhere.
Dylan longbottom.
the
days You’ve never surfed this much in your life. There really is no alternative, other than eating, sleeping and watching your toenails grow. For fun, you borrow some hand line from the crew and try catching small reef fish. Occasionally you spot other fishing boats, dragging nets along the sea floor. You see poacher boats stacked with wire cages. They come to these islands to steal monkeys, birds and reptiles from the jungle and sell them on the black market. There are pirates in these waters too, and the crew keeps your boards stashed below and out of sight to avoid any unwanted attention.
the
nights It feels like the night is never going to end. You’re balled up in the muggy cabin, rolling back and forth with the rocking boat, trying not to bump into your mate. The boat rocks like a rubber ducky in an angry child’s bathtub. You try to fall asleep by counting the number of rusty hooks and nails poking out from every surface, but you lose count every time. At least you were smart enough to bring along an air mattress. Your friends aren’t so lucky. One has his face buried in the ringworm mats so graciously provided by the crew. The other is wrapped up in a boardbag-and-towel burrito. Tonight you’re feeling anxious. You climb up to the roof of the cabin and lie down under the canopy of stars. You think about how good a hot shower would feel right now. Grilled shrimp tacos and a cold margarita. The taste of your girl’s lips. Then you return to the only thing that ever helps calm your spinning head, the reason you signed up for this survival mission in the first place: that first spinning tube you’ll pull into when the morning light warms the black sea.
Matt capel.
Matt capel.
the
end bask